


Snapshots

by TurnTechTimaeus



Series: Snapshots [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:32:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 57
Words: 15,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6457834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurnTechTimaeus/pseuds/TurnTechTimaeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This was written for pepperyjustice on Tumblr because apparently he summons geese now.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. I. The Muse

It’s all red brick and gloomy skies, wisps of steam lazily drifting up from a freshly brewed pot of tea and the sound of a fork on china. The same thing each day, wake up, get dressed, walk the red brick lined streets that provide so little inspiration, get home and brew a pot of tea and then, and then nothing because no matter how hard she tries she can never quite explain what happens next. Sometimes books are devoured as if the world ending and she _needs _the knowledge they contain other times it’s browsing aimlessly through site after site looking for something, anything that might pique her curiosity. On occasion music will do just that and you won’t hear from her for days because she’s found a muse and it eats away at her time never quite allowing her to fully detach and other times it’s a book and she’ll not sleep knowing she’s so close to the books end. One day she’ll move from this town, to somewhere where the buildings are older and full of history, where there are names etched into stone, some declaring love – no matter how brief – and others simply stating they were there. She’ll move to somewhere where the sky less grey and the wind is not so bitter. But for now she pours tea into a cup and gets herself another slice of cake.__


	2. II. The Poet

He’s a poet at heart, though being stuck indoors all day does nothing for him, he doesn’t write about the flowers or the sky, there are works about that already. He writes about himself, because truth be told no one can capture the way anyone feels unless it’s themselves. And though he doubts himself, albeit it rarely because they are for him to vent through, he carries on writing because he’s so much to say. He wraps it all in metaphors and rhymes, disguises and blends it until you can’t tell it’s him and then he relaxes, content that he no longer has to think about it. He’ll go home in a week, to where his heart belongs, to where her smile is and where he is free to be him. He’ll write copious amounts while there and maybe she’ll inspire a poem or two, he’s not quite sure. The words will come easy and the pace will be set lazily, he’ll scribble out words and tear out sheets upon sheets of paper until he achieves the desired effect and perhaps his floor will be covered, oh-so stereotypically in paper once he’s finished and refined his work but for now that doesn’t matter. It’ll be written in cursive, it always is, neat and easy to read, even though he doesn’t think it.


	3. III. The Writer

They’re looking through old pictures, not ones they’ve posted but ones others have. They don’t have the heart to ask them to take them down. It’s a part of their life they’d rather pretend never happened. Sometimes they want to write about it all, to craft what they went through into something that might help but they can’t find the words to hide the exact situation, nor can they start it. They can talk about it though, in a blunt manner and with anger and malice leeching into their words the way roots take up in soil. And they used to, to an empty room to get if off their chest, but they don’t feel that need anymore. They’ve thousands of things they want to say but the words never seem to fit or they seem clunky when placed together, so they never pen anything, unless it’s a good day and the work is upbeat, then it’s difficult to stop them. They never dwell on it for long, they’ve too much to do be it writing soliloquys or talking to people. Maybe one day they’ll find the words and there will be a soliloquy about how they feel which doesn’t feel stunted or halting. They’re never quite sure.


	4. IV. The Artist

Bright yellow daffodils line the bottom third of the canvas and he stepped back for a moment to admire his work thus far. Behind the daffodils sits a girl in a cream sundress with brilliant red hair her head buried in a book. It’s a fond memory of his, from a relationship gone sour, it’s one of the only good ones he has of it. He fell out of love with her, the same way one falls out with a friend and since then he’s locked himself in his studio with cigarette ends lining the outside windowsill. The walls are lined with paintings of friends and landscapes he adores. He sets the paints aside, picks up the canvas and takes it outside. The sound of a match striking reaches his ears and then the canvas is in flames and he sits and watches for a moment before leaving the flames to die out against the concrete. He draws the daffodils again and this time there is no girl with brilliant red hair and a nose buried in a book but rather a well-dressed man in attire resembling that of the Victorian era. From the floor below he hears music and the voice of the person that lives there, they’re forever practising soliloquys and whenever he sees them they have ink smeared across their hands and face, he thinks they might be fun to paint.


	5. V. The Lovers

Their fingers are entwined with one another and they’re pressed against one another slow dancing to the songs that’re playing on their Spotify. She’s rests her head on his shoulder and his chin rests on her head. They’ve not danced in weeks, having been so caught up in work. But here they are with the evening sun pouring through their kitchen table and warming the cream floor tiles and smiles on their faces. She’s wearing a black and blue chequered dress - which would’ve been burnt had he not convinced her to wear it after seeing it hanging in her wardrobe - and he’s still in his work clothes, lending a formality to the atmosphere. There’s red roses growing in the window box as there have been for years and they’re content. Even as the playlist comes to an end they remain stood there in one another’s embrace and it’s moments like these that they value highly because they’re relaxed and comfortable with one another and the kitchen smells of roses. She wonders briefly if it’s fair of him to love her if he’s all she has. She’s a recluse most of the time and he’s extroverted like no one would believe, but they fit with one another like pieces of a jigsaw and she thinks that if she believed in fate this would be it. He wonders what she’s thinking, he remembers seeing her for the first time, in one of his classes and the first time he’d spoken to her (it was to ask her for help with Maths) and they’ve gone from there. A relationship built on friendship and a mutual love of videogames, to them it’s perfect.


	6. VI. The Pianist

His fingers grace the piano keys swiftly, his fingers working faster than his brain can comprehend. It’s a beautiful melody, but melancholic, as they so often are. He never writes down the melodies he comes up with preferring to play them only once, it makes them all the more special to him. The rain patters against his window and he thinks that if he were in a book this would be one of the sadder scenes, despite the fact that he’s quite content with how his life has turned out, thank you muchly. When he finally stops playing and closes the lid it is dark out and the rain has stopped, the clouds clear revealing a sea of stars in the sky. He enjoys the night time sky but it’s bitter out so he doesn’t linger too long to look at the stars, although he does wonder briefly if many of them have Solar systems of their own. He thinks now that if he had the confidence he’d play in front of people but each time he thinks about it his heart pounds and he struggles to breathe, so he doesn’t and he’s quite happy with filling his house with music that no one else ever hears.


	7. VII. The Recluse

They’ve not left their room in days, they’re a recluse at heart writing everything they feel rather than telling the ones they care about how they feel. They gave up on things far too fast, trapped in their own mind and unable to find the words unless it is to write them in blue ink, it’s how they’ve done things for four years, writing them down in black leather skinned books or notebooks that they label inconspicuously so no one reads the bitter thoughts or deepest secrets that are held within. An ex-lover tried to get them to stop writing and for two years it worked spectacularly, they wrote nary a word lest it was how they felt and even that they kept carefully hidden so as not to provoke rage. They became self-destructive due to that and their skin bears the marks for it, unable to express their feelings or feel anything but numbness for two years, they struggle even now but just as the sun rises each day and the rain washes away the dirt on the paving stones in the courtyard beneath their room they’re on the mend. And they are as they’ve always been, a little bit broken, held together by the words they write and the knowledge they can’t be hurt anymore, they’re safe behind the locked door and surrounded by blankets and books, perhaps they will walk those streets with other, kinder lovers, one day. But at heart they are a recluse and this is home now and the locked door will keep the fear at bay. Some nights the nightmare will wake them or a panic attack might seize them come dawn but that’s a small price to pay for getting better.


	8. VIII. The Mechanist

Oil’s splattered on her boots and her wrench is somewhere across the workshop floor. The ticking and whirring sound of the new eyepiece she’s crafting is comforting. There are other sounds of course, including the hiss of steam as it travels through the pipes, provided her modest workshop with power. There are books and half-sketched blueprints scattered across the benches and copper wires and tools splayed across the floor. There’s a bed, if you can call a mattress on the floor a bed, in the corner and next to that a box with a clockwork locking mechanism, where she stores clean clothes. The bulk of the mask is done and the eyepiece is the only thing left to attach, she’d been commissioned to do it, for a handsome price and truth be told what the mask would be used for was none of her concern. Glancing outside she saw a police officer strolling through the street, his mechanical arm ticking and occasionally hissing when he moved to check his watch. She used to make arms and braces for soldiers after the war but years have passed and she’s more interested in helping those who want to bring down the corruption, so people slip her address to those interested and they come to her with designs and she makes them because what good is the city if honest people can’t make a living? She’s always cautious though, just in case it’s linked back to her, so they never get her name and they enter and exit through the door into the cobbled alley at the back of her shop. Her prices are cheap and she does legitimate business on the side, with the merchants who want to automate their businesses so no one talks about her helping the assassins, rogues or ‘anarchists’ of the city.


	9. IX. The Thief

They’re perched on the rooftop, the buttons and gold embroidery on their navy jacket catching the moonlight and if it weren’t empty out they’d surely be spotted. The mask fits them perfectly and the eyepiece allows them to view their environment as if through a magnifying glass. They can see the house they’re targeting, the lights are out and they’ve been informed that it’s empty. There’s several items they desire from a jewellery box to a cameo. The family are corrupt and they’ve been hired to teach them a lesson with instructions to take anything they desire and leave a note for them. They move swiftly towards the house and slip in through an open window before beginning their work. The only sound in the house is that of the grandfather clock. The house is beautiful really, several paintings line the walls and if they think ahead they might take one and gift it to the creator of the mask. This life is all they have, for a time they had a relationship with another thief until she tried to alert the authorities to their activities and so they moved to thieving from a wealthier district, where security is tighter but they’re used to that, having been a pickpocket first. They grab the cameo, the jewellery box, a painting of a young girl and several other expensive looking items before heading to the kitchen to pilfer food, leaving the note on the table they leave through the third floor window and move swiftly and quietly.


	10. X. The Explorer

He is greeted with the sight of the large abandoned house. The slate has either fallen to the floor and shattered or fallen through the roof into the attic below. Some of the windows are boarded up but the door itself is cracked open. He hurries on through and is greeted by the smell of damp and a ransacked house. It’d been abandoned quickly by the looks of it and no one had been near it since, he remembers there being a plague like illness years back and wonders if that’s why. Paintings hang from the walls but are curling and fading in their frames and in the parlour before him the table is upturned and there is what appears to be a crystal vase smashed on the floor. He’s careful as he moves from room to room taking photographs on his camera, in the bedrooms upstairs there’s an upturned jewellery box which still has some earrings and a necklace in and strewn across the floor is a faded corseted dress, he’s careful to take photos of every room and several aspects of them including the once vermillion and emerald coloured chairs and the books which have been left to rot on the shelves in the study. He leaves the house and heads into the gardens, the flowers have grown wildly and it’s almost like a jungle, the fountain is full of leaves and the smell of stagnant water lingers. Once he’s done he’ll leave this house and never come back, he never does there’s always a new place to explore. From the Victorian houses like this one to entire villages and institutions.


	11. XI. The Ferryperson

Theirs was a dreary job, ferrying the souls of the dead across the river. Sometimes the souls would chatter eagerly and they’d grace them with a response, other times they were silent and they wondered if these souls had lived a good life, they had not rather they’d been here since the Underworld was created and they would be there until it faded from existence. The souls would sometimes ask questions but they’d never left their boat and they couldn’t answer many. When the boat would reach the other side they’d hold out a thin hand from beneath their robe and ask for coins. More often than not the coins were given but sometimes, more so they noted as the years had gone by, the soul had no coins so they’d ask the soul to tell them a story for words were valuable to them as they couldn’t leave their boat or the Underworld. They’ve heard fantastic tales of planes, artists and music and sometimes it saddens them and they don’t say a word in response merely wave them off and begin rowing again. Back and forth they go across the eerily still river, day after day, year after year, with little to no complaint being rewarded in coin and stories or poetry.


	12. XII. The Damned

She’s been damned from the start. From the moment she got back up when she should’ve died. Her souls been damned to hell and she’s determined to go out with the biggest bang possible. She’s lusted, fell into the arms of wrath and jealousy and been a glutton in her three centuries of life. She’d been drowning in a pool of her own blood you see, a mere tavern girl beaten for not handing over the money she earned, it’d gone too far and she’d been lying there hoping and praying that maybe someone would save her from this agony. A man had seen her, taken pity and cursed her with eternal life, lest she walk into the sun. The first thing she’d done is found the man who’d beaten her so savagely and exacted revenge before reclaiming her pay. Then she’d fled. She’s seen Rome, Berlin, London, Helsinki, Copenhagen and many other places throughout the years, she’s learnt to paint and dance as well as read and write in her long life. She’s worn flowers in her hair and been a muse to many. But now she’s weary and eager to stay in her small house far from people, where the rooms are full of things she’s collected and the memories and ghosts of those she’s killed don’t haunt her. She knows she’ll have to die eventually, the novelty wears off much like the excitement for Christmas fades with each passing year for children, but hell can wait, she’s not quite finished yet.


	13. XIII. The Assassin

She’s moving gracefully through the crowds, no one would think that she’s here to kill. The smell of cigarette smoke lingers in the air as women smoke through holders and men smoke cigars. The soft ticking and whirring of the brace on her left arm is barely audible over the sound of the chatter and music. Her target’s not too far in front of her and while some assassins would murder their target in the open with a blade or a shot she’s much more refined, poison will do. The clockwork band’s music begins to reach the crescendo as she slips the poison into his drink before anyone notices and watches as a waiter carries it over to him. Then she’s mingling with the upper classes as if she belongs there. She knows if she’s caught it’ll end in a bloodbath and she’ll walk away as if nothing happened, vanishing into the night with blood splattered across her dress and maybe even a few wounds and dents in the brace. She’s good with a blade, despite the fact up until she went to visit a Mechanist a few months ago she could barely move it on account of an injury sustained on her last job. She’s regained all her skills with a blade since and it’s like she’s never stopped but her favourite method will always be poison. She hears a crash and looks up to see the man fall to the floor, having lost all feeling in his legs, a couple of guests scream and the waiter is led away by guards. She smiles as pandemonium breaks out at the party and leaves, taking the now empty bottle of hemlock with her. Her pockets will be lined quite nicely once her employer gets wind of this and perhaps she’ll send some tea to the Mechanist as a thank you for the brace.


	14. XIV. The Heir

He sits slouched next to his father. He’s barely listening to the announcements being given out by the steam-powered attendant. His attention is piqued when it mentions a death, presumed an assassination at a party a week prior. His father shifts uncomfortably as he’s told the news about his friend but he’s eager to know the details. He’s a curious mind who wants to walk the streets without guards and just be treated like a normal person rather than the heir to a crumbling and corrupt empire. It’s the fifth incident of murder, thievery or pickpocketing in the last week and by now his father has to realise that something’s wrong with his empire and the company he keeps. But apparently not as his father turns to him in his red military jacket embroidered with gold and tells him all about how good and kind his friend was. His gaze is cast out across the bustling city below, airships pass overhead and steam rises from the chimneys. He’d much rather be out there, wandering the streets and getting to know the people he’s to rule, instead he’s sat in a marble floored, echoing hall being bored to death. When he’s finally allowed to leave he makes a beeline for the garden, waving off any guards who attempt to follow him before exiting the palace for the city streets. His shoes clack against the cobble and no one looks at him in this wealthy district as he speeds towards the market. People start to look at him and whisper as he walks through the market but he pays them no mind, what’s the point? He’s the same as any of them and his station shouldn’t be of any importance as of yet.


	15. XV. The Witch

She’s a kindly woman, stood over her stove, popping herbs and flora into her pot in order to create healing potions of varying strengths. She’s quiet over her practice of witchcraft but if she hears of one of her neighbours falling ill or being in pain she’ll spend the evening making a potion and leave it on their doorstep or if she hears one of the village girls talking of a crush she’ll make them a charm and bundle it in fabric and leave it on their sill, hoping it’ll bring them luck in love. She’s a quiet soul who’s more at home creating potions and practising incantations in private rather than making a living as the wise woman of the village, she’ll leave that to other, more outgoing women. When there’s a drought she’ll ask the Gods for rain, in the hopes they’ll answer and her village won’t starve, more oft than not they do. She never speaks a word of this to the others in the village because some of them frown upon her craft and she’s heard tales whispered via the wind or babbled by brooks of men and women killed for practising her craft, so she remains quiet in her practise committing her recipes and spells to books lest they be forgotten.


	16. XVI. The Ruler

He’s a just man, or so his subjects tell him. He knows the empire is crumbling and his son is desperate not have to hold the cracks together and hold his station. He knows that his friends are corrupt and yet he does nothing because if he were to do anything, he tells himself, it would have ramifications for centuries. He’s aggrieved every time one of his friends is killed or targeted for being corrupt but if he were to denounce them it would cause war. He’s stood looking over the capital city, talking idly to a maid, asking how it is out there, an artist paints him in splendour with his red military jacket, war medals and greying hair. He used to long to roam the streets as his son does now, but then the war came and he was forced to put aside childish dreams in order to lead his home to victory. He never wanted to rule truth be told, it was his brother’s right but he abandoned his station for an airship pilot and while he’s happy to rule he’s saddened by the fact his brother isn’t here to see him. His chambers are lavish with blue tapestries and a painting of himself, his wife and his son handing opposite his bed and as he listens to the maid tell him that the city is thriving he finds himself hoping that his son will be truly just and undo all his mistakes because dear God he’s made so many.


	17. XVII. The Blacksmith

Their forge is warm and they can been seen hammering away at a broadsword within. They’re too small to be a warrior and too good with a hammer to be a squire. They’ve worked the forge for years and even as the women of the village pass by and giggle as they work they pay them no attention. They’re utterly devoted to their work. They’ve crafted swords, armour, shields and even jewellery at this forge and the embers always glow and it is like stepping into a different world entering their forge. There’s a bed in back and on the rare occasion it’s used it’s always remade neatly and then they’re working again. Their face and hands are darkened from the soot but underneath their skin is red, some of the girls have said they look like a tomato in the past. The clang of the hammer as it repeatedly hits the broadsword is comforting, they’re moulding iron –which would’ve been impossible if not for the high heat – into their desired shape and they do so with ease. Their muscles ache but it’s never enough to keep them from work and their shaggy hair is tied back with twine lest they burn it while smithing. They’ve been told to take on an apprentice but truthfully all the men and boys in the village will be either monks or warriors, there’s no in between. They’ve considered a female apprentice, there are a few girls who know their weapons and they’re not too worried about being scorned over their unorthodox practises for they know what goes on in some of the seamstress’s classes though they might deny it.


	18. XVIII. The Goddess

Once she was revered, they told stories about her and how she’d been kidnapped and eaten the food of her home and could only leave once every six months. Truthfully she’s happy here. There are always people to talk to and on occasion she’ll walk to the river and speak with the Ferryperson. There’s no suffering, like people believe but there are grieving lovers and those who petition to have their loved one brought back to life, she and her husband learnt their lesson after the first one. She knows there are those who still worship her and it fills her with warmth that even centuries after her original worshippers passed people still worship her. She’ll answer their prayers sometimes, allow them to see apparitions of their loved ones and have a few moments with them. Her mother had understandably been annoyed when she’d chosen to stay with her husband but she’s heard stories of other gods and goddesses cheating and her husband is loyal and she’s never alone. On occasion she’ll take a trip to the surface and walk among the mortals, a small smile gracing her face and sometimes those mortals will see their loved one later that night be it in their dreams, a mirror or even as an apparition. She likes the feeling of the sun on her skin and the breeze through her hair but the Underworld is her home and even if the Ferryperson doesn’t say it when they row her across they’re grateful to hear her stories, she can see it in their face and she always leaves them with enough coin to ensure any souls that have none can get across. She’ll wander past lovers, reunited and soldiers marching in formation as she heads home, along the cobbled path towards the brilliant white house.


	19. XIX. The Survivor

They’ve come this far. Slogged through the terrible thoughts and the crippling self-doubt. Through the fear of only being good enough for someone to sleep with and now they’re happy. They like to think what happened to them happened to someone else, even though it didn’t really and they still have nightmares sometimes but there’s usually a message from a friend waiting for them and the terror is swiftly forgotten, as if a flooded river has swept it away. They’re a long way off being ‘okay’ but they’re getting there. They dance to their favourite music and they love their friends unconditionally and while love may seem a strong word to some, they think it fits because their friends are their family in a sense, they’re loved by them and they’d defend all of them with their life if it came down to it. They were scared for a time when they felt nothing, for a year and a half they felt nothing and maybe it was their way of self-preservation – becoming a marble statue in a sense – or maybe it was to give themself the time to heal a little. There are things they can never broach with others but that’s okay because they’ve always fought, be it recovering from a stroke to fighting their sister with words when she’d try to provoke them. They’ve survived against the odds and not even abuse could break them permanently no matter how close to the abyss they strayed. But now they’ve their feet planted firmly on the ground, getting further and further from the abyss with each passing day because that’s what they’re good at, surviving against all odds.


	20. XX. The Inventor

He’s been slaving away over this device for years now and he’s so happy that it finally works. He’s a recluse by nature, had his fifteen minutes of fame for finding an efficient way to utilise clockwork and steam and now he works on defending his home. He’s heard stories bullets being ineffective against clockwork braces, stopping the clockwork until it can be repaired, so he’s taken it a step further with a device that will render the clockwork useless permanently requiring criminals to buy new braces if they’re not apprehended. His workshop overlooks the docks and the fresh sea air greets him each morning like an old friend and he loves the way the sunrise and sunset shimmers off of the water. Naturally he lives in the wealthiest district of the city and is acclaimed amongst the aristocracy for his high level of work and constant upgrades to his work. Something gnaws at him like a flame burning through paper, his inventions have been used to kill, especially in the war and with the riots and it was never his intention that they be used that way. They were intended to help, to give people a better quality of life not to end those lives in the same way one would end that of a rabid animal.


	21. XXI. The Thinker

She’s had too many chances he decides. Too many chances to tell him how she feels instead of messing with him. There’s someone else anyway, she makes him laugh until his face hurts and the muscles in his stomach ache. He’s not angry really, just saddened that he spent so much time on someone who just didn’t care and honestly it’s nice to have someone who does. It makes him happy and his friends have noticed. All traces of her are gone and his last message to her is informing her that he’s found someone else and fuck her and all the shit she put him through. He’s moving on and nothing can stop him now. He doesn’t care, he’s found someone who makes him happy and that’s all he can ask for lest he take it for granted. He wants to be angry, he wants to scream at her tell her how many chances she had and even if she apologised three thousand times over or tried to make amends six thousand times over, he’d still choose the girl who makes him laugh and feel like he’s looking at the most important thing in the world because he doesn’t deserve to be messed around, no one does. But he rarely angers and so the words go unspoken and his head is filled with snippets of a girl who makes him smile like he’s just won something huge or like a child when they get a puppy for Christmas. He lies down and watches the ceiling idly until he falls asleep, a smile on his face and an empty glass that once held neat rum on the bedside cabinet.


	22. XXII. The Geese Summoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written for pepperyjustice on Tumblr because apparently he summons geese now.

He could’ve chosen anything to summon. But he chose geese. His reasoning was simple they could intimidate or distract anyone and they helped him stretch his clothes out when they shrank. Some of the baby ones he’d equipped with tiny plastic shields and foam swords which quite frankly was adorable and there was a reason he’d been scoring 100% on all his tests (pro tip: goslings are surprisingly effective at helping you get good grades). He’d fashioned black capes and helmets for others (and called them Goose Wayne – the nerd). It was rare that people questioned him when he strolled by with a horde of geese, each one honking and some getting mad when the occasional person tried to pet their goslings (although one time a ninja managed to and it was ace). Then again it was also rare that anyone would challenge him and his horde of geese but in front of him stood a singular gosling, dressed to the nines with a foam dagger and a sign around its neck saying ‘fight me’, unfortunately for him his geese wouldn’t because who fights a gosling dressed to the fucking nines?


	23. XXIII. The Time Traveller

She manipulates time with ease. Be it viewing it through mirrors, as she’s currently doing because this house is old and on occasion she captures glimpses of a maid and hears her wishes to get away from the family who own it or visiting the time itself. She doesn’t like visiting different times too often, it wears her out and she gets terribly confused when she returns to her own time. She’s sat watching the past occupants of the house eat when the maid places a tray in front of the mirror, looks up and drops the tray. She recoils as does the maid because quite frankly no one can see through time like she can. Quickly the maid regains composure, apologises and heads back to work and the scene fades from the mirror. She didn’t mean to scare the woman and she notes that she looks about her age and she’s tempted to pull her through the mirror away from the family and into her time, but she’s been warned against that, the shock of it could kill her. But the maid can see her so clearly she can see through time as well. She blinks, the sun is filtering through the window bathing the room in a golden glow and her eyes begin to ache from staring for so long, reluctantly she gets up and waters the flowers on the window ledge before going to prepare food. It’s an impulse decision that night, when she pulls the maid through the mirror, the maid had been looking inquisitively and hadn’t seemed shocked when she’d been pulled through. They talked for the first time before she returned her back to her own time with the promise of talking again and maybe, when they knew one another better, the maid could escape her own time to the present day.


	24. XXIV. The Maid

She hates this family. They lash her when she makes a mistake and she’s lucky to receive any wage they tell her because she does a terrible job. She’s been seeing things lately out the corner of her eye as she sweeps the floors or carries the chamber pots to be emptied. It’s always in the mirror and it seems to be a girl about her age in men’s clothing which is preposterous because women are confined to dresses, and she always looks lonely or intrigued like she can see her through the mirror. It comes to a head when she’s serving dinner that evening and the girl appears in the mirror suddenly, staring right at her before recoiling when the girl realises she can see her. She drops the tray but quickly shakes it off and gets back to work. The lashes hurt ten times worse that night but she gets up out of bed and carries an oil lamp to a large mirror in the hall and sees the girl standing there smiling, she places a hand on the mirror and the girl pulls her through as if she knew that the maid wanted to escape. They talk for a while, the girl is nice and the hall is near identical to how it was in her time but there are flowers on the sill and when they’re finished she doesn’t want to go home. The girl insists she must though, but that eventually she can stay in the future if she wants. The maid smiles and says she’d like that before stepping back through the mirror and goes to bed dreaming of all the things the future might hold.


	25. XXV. The Pickpocket

They’ve always been a bit odd they think as they leap onto the balcony overlooking the river, which as always is a murky brown they don’t want to think about. The mansion is in disrepair and as a result a stark contrast to the other mansions nearby. They think it’s a shame that the ornate dining table should rot and the painting should crack, curl and peel in their frames as damp worms its way through the house the way the vines are creeping up the house towards the balcony. People believe it to be haunted, by a woman who’s present only in the mirrors and thus the house has fallen into disrepair making it a perfect place for them to rest at night after a hard day of pickpocketing from the rich and occasionally taking a pastry or two, for the mechanist that made the mechanics that allow them to leap from rooftop to rooftop and balcony to balcony with ease. They store the stuff they’ve pickpocketed up in the master bedroom because most of it’s small and the Lady of the house left her jewellery behind when she fled so there’s pocket watches they’ll never use and jewellery they’ll never wear scattered across a dusty side because they’re careful not to leave their mark here. One day they might sell it but for now they’re content with pickpocketting because stolen goods are hard to sell and fences are hard to find.


	26. XXVI. The Geese Summoner Part II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again written for PepperyJustice on tumblr because he still summons geese

The tiny well dressed gosling stood in the middle of the road, top hat slipping around as it bounced up and down challenging the Geese Summoner and his geese to fight. (It wants to be loved really, its owner wandered off a while back to get food or some shit. ~~It wandered off really~~.) Truth be told not even its owner knows where it got the sign but they’d crafted the top hat, waistcoat and dagger themself. After realising the Geese Summoner wasn’t gonna fight it because hello it’s dressed to the nines and that waistcoat is too beautiful and too nice a shade of purple to get dirt on the gosling potters over and poorly gracefully hops over all the other geese to perch itself on the Geese Summoner’s shoulder like a parrot because it always chilled on its owners shoulder (sometimes in bitching sunglasses like a boss) and an unstoppable combo was born.


	27. XXVII. The Vindicator

They know these streets like the back of their hands, they defected from the palace guard a few months ago, upon being framed for a murder they didn’t commit. It’d been a serving girl, they’d stumbled across her and well the rest was history really and now they were striding towards a small workshop to pick up the implements they’d requested. Their face was never shown in the newspapers but if they want to get anywhere near the poor girl’s killer they’re going to have to hide their face and hope that this Mechanist is as good as they’ve been told. A young woman slipped the address into their hand after they’d seen a member of the aristocracy poisoned and given a small grin behind their hand. They’re greeted with a modest workshop and a young woman holding out the package to them before reeling off the implements in it. There’s a folding sword, should they need to take out a guard, a mask to hide their face and a can containing paint which the Mechanist says can be used to spray words onto a wall. In the evening they enter the palace thanks to another servant and stalk their way through the corridor taking the hidden passages the servants showed them while they worked there before finally coming upon the Commander’s quarters. They’re quiet when they open the door and the Commander doesn’t notice them until it’s too late and their hand is clasped over his mouth, blood gushing from the slice in his neck and a foul smell permeates the room. They take the can of paint and leave the word ‘Justice’ on the wall and then they’re leaving the palace the same way they entered and the newspaper in the morning tells of a shocking murder and ponders what the Commander did.


	28. XXVIII. The Collector

She scavenges through the ruins of buildings long since destroyed by bombs for photos and mementos of people long dead. Sometimes she finds dresses, newspapers or lockets and she loads as much as she can on each trip into her bags and pockets before carrying it all back to the old train station. There she’ll meticulously categorise the newspapers she finds by day, month and year and place them into the rusted newspaper stand, the ticket office holds a mattress she’d found months earlier, it’s stained by dust and the duvet she’d found with it has faded, likely bleached by the blast described in one of the newspapers but she can make out very faint flower patterns. The dresses she finds, and occasionally wears if she’s not out scavenging for food, water and mementos. On occasion wanderers drop by and view the mementos she’s collected, some try to buy them from her but she merely shakes her head. She’s hung the pictures she’s found in broken frames or propped them up on windowsills around the old station. Currently she’s moving bricks and broken furniture to try and find food, she tried to go near an old shopping centre but there was a large group of scavengers there already so she’s digging through the ruins of houses, gathering up canned food and pasta and testing any taps she finds, if they produce water she hastily shoves a container beneath it until either the container fills or the tap runs dry. As she leaves the largely intact house she grabs photos, newspapers and jewellery. The newspapers are always yellowed, the photo’s too but there’s some charm in the smiling faces of couples, children or families and she hopes that by collecting them and displaying them in her cobbled together museum and home someone might be interested enough to pick up an old camera and take photos or even help her. It’s a simple life but she loves it nonetheless, sometimes she wishes she could find a record player or an old television set that’s in good enough condition for her to listen and view the discs and tapes she’s found. There’s still power, she’s heard rumours from other scavengers and merchants that there’s a group of people dedicated to keeping power running, but no one wants to rebuild the old houses, choosing to live and work in the subway tunnels, buildings that sustained little damage or shacks built out of wood or metal.


	29. XXIX. The Ghost

He’s walked these halls hundreds of times and even as damp works its way up the walls and the wallpaper peels he doesn’t see it. He sees it in its opulence with the chandelier that’s long since crashed to the floor and rusted bright and brilliant. He hears the piano that’s coated in a thick layer of dust and smells of mould playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and he smiles because to him the empty hallways are frequented by maids and a few dinner guests. The broken oak floorboards are lacquered and shining. He doesn’t realise nearly a hundred years has passed since this dinner, since he passed away. But perhaps that’s for the best because it’d pain him to see the paintings of his family, lover and friends curling in their frames and for him to realise he’s dead. He doesn’t remember how he dies, he never does he just replays his final night and now he’s sitting down for a dinner only he can see as the dining table is rotten and upturned, he drinks his wine and eats his food. It’d be an hour before they find him collapsed forward at his writing desk, ink running in rivers and dripping to the floor rhythmically. He was buried in the mausoleum his family own but his apparition scared his family out of the mansion and now he walks the halls reliving his last night.


	30. XXX. The Alchemist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this was spawned based on a conversation about character types and Camelot

They’ve got a nice little setup in their house. A cauldron bubbles over a log fire and several hats in various states of either repair or construction litter the dinner table. After an indeterminate amount of time they remove the cauldron from the log fire and using a ladle they carefully decant the contents of the cauldron, a potion of invisibility into several labelled vials and places them carefully into a cloth bag already anticipating the return of the Mage. The bag is full of potions and a few new hats, sorcery is a dangerous profession the Mage always tells them so and he dislikes being without a hat, always stating that his hair is too mussed by the hat and now that they think about it they’ve rarely seen him without his hat(s). They shake their head rapidly and focus on transmuting rocks into gold, it’s fairly simple to them at least they’ve been doing alchemy for years so it takes them mere minutes to recite the spell and mix the required ingredients in the cauldron and then they’re pulling out the gold and placing it next to the bag of potions. It feels like mere minutes later, but perhaps it was hours because they’ve cleaned the house and gone to the market to buy food and herbs, when the Mage bursts into the house, eyes bright and chattering wildly about successfully clearing goblins from a cave with the spell he’d devised. They chuckle and shove the bag of potions, several new hats and gold into his hand before pecking him on the cheek and telling him to be careful because they can’t afford another incident due to those dragons he’s been raising. It was bad enough that they’d burnt at least ten of his hats and nearly burnt their house down.


	31. XXXI. The Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was also spawned based on the aforementioned conversation about character types and Camelot

He’s been clearing the cave out for the past few hours. Goblins are pesky buggers and they’ve been stealing carts, horses and jewellery from the townspeople and he’s the only one who’s brave enough ~~(the townsfolk said stupid but the Alchemist said brave)~~ to approach the cave. His main speciality is necromancy, so to him it’s simple enough and only takes moments for him to summon the dead goblins and skeletons that litter the last section of the cave and then once it’s cleared out he gathers up the stolen items and leads the horses and carts from the cave. He hurries off once it’s all been returned and is chattering excitedly when he enters the house. He’s always proud when he finishes a project and the Alchemist greets him with a chuckle and then they’re shoving potions, hats and gold into his arms and pecking him on the cheek. He reminds them he needs to check on the dragons and their response is that he should be careful. He’s raising two dragons both are a deep purple and occasionally spit flames at him but generally the Alchemist’s potions stop him from getting burnt with the exception of his beloved hat. Okay there was that one time where his dragons nearly burnt the house down and the Alchemist was less than pleased until he’d repaired the damage and promised that he’d contact another mage who could fireproof the house and all their books. He did so and on occasion they’ll come down and watch him as he trains them or practises him necromancy. But for now he sits at the table devouring soup, meat and bread opposite the Alchemist, sometimes he gestures wildly about all his experiments with necromancy his eyes bright before reminding them that sorcery is dangerous and they just grin because he’s told them a hundred times and the amount of times he’s come back covered in scrapes or cuts from necromancy gone awry.


	32. XXXII. The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of my best friends (you can find her here: https://ajourneythroughmyeyesblog.wordpress.com/ or at alcapony-empire on tumblr) asked me to write for her. This was the result :D

No one said the Devil was male. In fact, she’s a rather lovely young woman who will serve you tea and chat with you over it. She runs a tight ship in hell but isn’t unkind (that’s her warlord’s jobs because she would never have dreamed up using terms and conditions as a punishment) in fact she quite enjoys hearing stories from the residents. Nothing’s on fire but she generally avoids the level of wrath because there are flying teacups and she doesn’t want to deal with all the broken crockery at nine in the morning thank you very much. She likes fluffy cardigans which she can curl into like a cat and playing the piano, Für Elise is her favourite she loves the middle part. She’s usually smiling and chatting away to her warlords (the one that runs the Wrath and Lust levels is her favourite she just has to avoid the flying crockery and clamber through the frequent ~~orgies~~ parties depending on which level she visits). In the evening she likes to take a nice warm bubble bath (because who doesn’t fucking love bubble baths?) and have a bottle of wine, because she’s the devil and you’re damn right she’s going to sin because that what she does and she does it well. Her levels of hell feature a nice, well-kept cottage with rose bushes outside, tea on the table and a prawn curry on the stove, although those chillies were a bitch and next time she won’t buy them from an angel. Because angels are dicks.


	33. XXXIII. The Scientists

For as long as both of them can remember they’ve worked together in this lab on portals, testing and perfecting them. It’s a crisp white room, with splashes of colour as one of them, the feminine one, insists that they have bright fabrics dotted about the wall and the male is pretty sure that some of the fabrics are old scarves. But then he’s not one to talk when on the cork board there are posters and sarcastically written instructions and memos on neon post-it notes (and some pastel ones). Currently they’re both stood in front of a portal, staring at a galaxy, it’s just as beautiful as it is in the photos. They’ve managed to engineer the portals so nothing leaks through on either side, the feminine one says that it’s to avoid potential contamination but really it’s so they can observe, like they are now. He moves to the computer and types in numbers, he’s better at numbers than the feminine one and the scene changes to a coral reef, and sea urchins litter the reef and bright fish pass by rapidly. Of course it hasn’t always been the mandated research for portals they’ve been carrying out, when the labs are empty and everyone else has gone home they engineer viruses to reanimate the dead or calculate the possibility of time travel or the multiverse theory. He thinks they could use black holes as a sort of thoroughfare between dimensions and the feminine one has to agree to be honest but they think they just lead elsewhere in the universe.


	34. XXXIV. The Dark Magician

She’s proficient in dark magic, she has been for a while, using it to summon cats that can pass through walls or sometimes for story ideas. It’s not the typical usage for this type of magic but it works and she wouldn’t dream of using it to hurt anyone, her tattoos shift and change in their pattern as they wander lazily across her skin, her cheeks resemble a sea of stars’ right now but in a few moments time the stars will have shifted and melded into something different. Cats patter around her as she sits studying her grimoire, one nuzzles against her and another curls on her lap while a kitten pokes its head through the floor, a haze of violet inkiness surrounding it. A couple of people have come to her with issues, or wanting her to hurt someone else with her magic but she merely shakes her head. Yes, the magic she uses is considered evil and the chalk outline of a circle on her floor is thought by many to be one she uses to injure others but she’s a nice person who just wants cats and ideas. She could’ve used other types of magic but some of them will leave her too emotional or to memorise runes upon runes and while she can write in runes it’s not preferred. Dark magic on the other hand merely required her to suffer through nightmares which may or may not leave her feeling ill and drenched in a cold sweat but it’s okay, she’ll make a cup of tea and then curl back up in bed.


	35. XXXV. The Fighter

They’re difficult to get along with, let alone care about, when they’re like this. They’re snappy and they don’t mean to hurt anyone they don’t want to but they’re just so sad and they can’t deal with it. They made it five months without hurting themself and now they can only hope that they don’t slip again. It stings, a bit like when nettles brush against your skin on a walk and in a few days the wounds will begin to itch like the rash of a nettle. But now they need to focus on dragging themself out of this pit they’ve landed in, if not for themself then for their friends. They’ve not a clue as to what set this episode off and the tea has been replaced by alcohol but honestly they’ll drink it and then sleep, as they have the past few nights. The alcohol causes them to sleep fitfully but it’s better than the nightmares and the panic attacks and it might be square one again but they’ve walked this path before they can do it again. One day at a time. They’re a little broken, some might say shattered, but they’ll get there and they can only hope that in this process they don’t hurt anyone. Their brain plays tricks on them sometimes so lists and journal entries written in bright inks are commonplace as are soft bright scarves in order to calm them. It’s going to take time but they’ll be okay, these episodes are lessening in frequency (having only increased due to an unfavourable environment) and once they’re home they’ll be right as rain a smile plastered on their face and healed scars which is how it was for five months. Next time they’ll aim for longer.


	36. XXXVI. The Romantic

He’s sat overlooking the ocean, composing poem after poem about the girl he loves. The sea breeze sends salt water pattering across his face though he’s careful to keep his leather-bound notebook clear of the spray lest the salt water cause the ink to leech through the paper and cause blotches similar to raindrops when they hit the concrete. He’s thin enough that many believe if the wind were to pick up he’d be picked up and send soaring through the skies, like Icarus sans the wings. He’s shy about his love for this girl thinking it foolish but a part of him believes she likes him and it’s that part that he clings to (it’s true she likes him) and thus he composes. When people think of Romantics they tend to think of Lord Byron with flowing hair and ruffled cuffs but that’s beside the point he thinks as the sun warms his back and small drops of salt water hit his face. Seagulls squawk noisily overhead and the wind picks up a little sending grains of sand skittering across the beach and the sound of the tide is loud in his ears now, his reverie broken by the sound of footsteps and voices approaching, he looks up briefly and sees the girl walking towards him long brown hair fluttering in the wind and it’s then he realises he’s happy and he belongs here. Where the wind is fresh, the sun warms his back and the girl he loves smiles and chats with him, or listens to him talk about the cars he loves so much.


	37. XXXVII. The Dragon Tamer (AKA The Mage II)

He’s had many scorched hats in his time and the Alchemist has had to knit and sew him many more but having dragons is worth it. They’re a deep purple colour, which shimmers almost lilac in the flickering torchlight and they’re knee height now and puff smoke instead of flames for once. He remembers finding the eggs on an outcrop, they were a deep blue colour with white speckles, like the night sky when it’s clear. He’d been coming back from raising a skeleton army in order to defeat some Orcs who’d decided that trying to raid a trading outpost surrounded by mountains had been a good idea. He’d come dashing in, causing the Alchemist to look up from their pot and yelled that he needed the fire _right now_ because he had dragon eggs and could they please keep them. Admittedly the Alchemist had nodded (but then told him they weren’t going to look after them). This was how he ended up with two deep purple dragons that nearly burnt their house down and led to him paying two hundred gold pieces to have the house fireproofed lest they burn it down and have to replace priceless books because of his dragons. They are for the most part tame and he hasn’t had his fingers bitten off yet, although they used to try but he put a quick stop to that and currently one is curled on his lap with the other sprawled next to him making quiet growling sounds while he calmly strokes them. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the Alchemist leaning against a wooden support beam, hat in hand watching with a small smile on their face.


	38. XXXVIII. The Lady Of The Lake

There’s a common belief that the Lake gives life but she also takes it and it’s true, beneath the surface of many, if not all lakes lurks a Lady who guards it. However, only one Lady ever held a sword for a king. This lake is frozen over, the Lady of this lake has a cold heart, in part due to the frigid temperatures but also due to the inhabitants of the nearby town taking and taking from her lake. First it occurred above the ice and the bears that roamed across it were targeted for fur pelts to warm the villagers then it was then it was the fish that lurked in her domain and when fish were scarce they harvested crabs and shrimp. She’s angry and now the villagers suffer, but only the worst ones. Those who steal from her and don’t pay their due, or leave an offering suffer the ice cracking below them, especially in the spring. She needs to eat too but if you gaze upon her you’d think her fair, with pallid skin and matted hair the colour of straw, her teeth are sharp though, her hands webbed and the lower half of her body is a tail, much like a snake. They find the bodies in summer completely intact for the Lady of this lake, at least, doesn’t eat the bodies rather she consumes the souls as payment for the lives stolen from her domain. Her magic is ancient she’s been here since this lake formed, back when it was warmer and before humans roamed the land. She’s seen the continents shifts and felt her kin die as their lakes dried. She’s gone from feeling the sun on her body to feeling the water grow frigid and a sheet of ice form above her. But this is her domain just as the Devil rules over hell she rules over this lake keeping its inhabitants safe.


	39. XXXIX. The Botanist

They enjoy their work, be it picking flowers to study their physiology or observing fungi and algae under a microscope, contrary to popular belief they primarily work at home and occasionally send their results to their peers but sometimes they’ll head into the lab especially when they have algae they want to examine. They also test out herbs and spices that people have long since stopped using for medicinal purposes and cultivate the rare ones. Although they’re aggrieved that they can’t cultivate certain plants such as Silphium (no one identified the genus or the species although several have been put forward) which would make for effective birth control if the Romans had left some for them to cultivate it might even be better than the pills they use currently. But to them it’s a folly dwell on the past and the plants they could’ve cultivated, hence they’re determined to amass a garden that would rival a monastery of old. Partially because they love the scent of flowers and herbs (roses and lavender are their favourites) and partially because they like bees and the way they bop into flowers as they go about their business making honey. They became a botanist for a variety of reasons, the main one being their love of flowers as a child they’d spent the majority of their time in the garden with their nan, a kindly woman who’d taught them everything they’d needed to know about cultivation of flowers, herbs and spices and as such they’d wanted to honour her memory. The cultivation bubble (it’s a greenhouse but cultivation bubble sounds so much cooler in their opinion) is humid enough that their hair and clothes cling to their skin due to the air being humidified artificially and is warm enough that they can work without the thick jacket they’d worn on the way from the house. They’re used to the thickness of the air the combination of heat and water vapour is comforting to them now and the ~~greenhouse~~ cultivation bubble houses their aspirations even if the Romans have made it so they’ve never been able to cultivate Silphium.


	40. XXXX. The Enigma

She’s an oddity to most, too erratic in personality for people to figure out and too unfocused to describe herself to others. She likes riddles though, they’re the most fun. Some are easy and she can solve them before you’ve finished saying the riddle whereas others require her to think for hours, sometimes days before she can answer them. She likes the mental exercise, she’s always surrounded by books, crosswords, jigsaw puzzles anything and everything she can get her hands on that might confound her even if for a moment. Some days her mind is sharp and in focus and everything hurts because they’ve not been used to that state for a long time, oft preferring the fuzzy, slightly hazy head-in-the-clouds state they’ve become accustomed to. She’s heard people whisper that she’s odd, weird and doesn’t belong but she simply walks on by ignoring them, her brain clicks with the sciences but not maths, she was never good at numbers. She adores figuring out why electronics work the way they do or why they’ve not found life yet. Truth be told she enjoys solving puzzles and reading books because she dislikes the way people talk about her. She’s kind and caring and just because they think she’s weird shouldn’t detract from that. She has friends who care and help her with puzzles and maths and to her that’s all that matters.


	41. XXXXI. The Dreamer

They’re making friends with the fireflies, watching idly as they flit about the sky like tiny stars, albeit cooler and closer and actually moving. They don’t bother them and as a result they’re treated to a light show each night. Their head is full of ideas be it creative projects such as what they might paint or draw next to absurd ideas that could be used to combat disease or poverty for example. They spend a lot of time with their head in the clouds, more than is probably wise but truth be told they wouldn’t change it for the world, they quite like the way they muse, it’s comforting to them. As they watch the fireflies flit their thoughts turn to the night sky, more importantly the stars and planets, they wonder if there’s life on other planets, there has to be humanity can’t be alone they believe. When they sleep they dream of many things from nightmares that seize them on increasingly rare occasions of things best left forgot to dreams filled with oddities be it large geese or a green sky. They write a lot of things down, partially in case they forget but also because somewhere in the scattered ramblings of their mind are ideas that they can build upon. Despite the lateness of the hour it’s still warm out but it’s nowhere near as stifling as it was during the day. The warmth reminds them almost of a dying flame and their thoughts turn from the sky and extra-terrestrial life to the human state amongst other things, to them it’s similar to the dying flame but they’re cautious not to dwell on it too long.


	42. XXXXII. The Detective

He tries his best not to recoil at the stench coming off the body. In his pinstripe suit he cuts a striking figure amongst the crowd of officers. The corpse, formerly a young man dressed to the nines, was found by a flapper on her way home for the night. The poor lass is shaken up and he thinks it’s a doozy that she had to find it. He inspects the crime scene silently, taking into account the pool of blood which is still leeching slowly into the cobbled street and flowing like a disturbing river down the street. He finds a knife behind a metal bin and then looks over the man determining that it was indeed the same knife that was used to end his life. Not that it was a stretch but the reasons behind this man’s death along with his killer continue to elude him. The cigarette that’s been half-smoked is clearly his and upon inspection it appears his pocket-watch, wallet and lighter had been stolen, the neighbourhood is rough but muggings are rare even here and if they do occur they nearly never end in death. In a few hours’ time he’ll leave the scene having found as much evidence as he can and then retire to his office with a glass of whiskey, taken neat because he finds ice waters it down far too much for his taste. He’ll review the evidence and find the man was part of a syndicate before deeming that a rival syndicate was to blame and he will be correct in this assumption as he often is.


	43. XXXXIII. The Recluse II

They’re usually closed off, walls built high like those that surround a Victorian mansion where vines have grown and coated the walls and if the house is particularly unfortunate then the vines have encroached the inside as well. But people seem to be chipping away consistently at those walls and well it’s kind of beautiful they suppose, the same way a flower breaking through concrete and surviving is beautiful. Depending on the day they prefer one state over another but it’s getting to the point where they prefer people and part of them dislikes the need they have to rely on others. Well it’s not reliance per say more a wanting to talk to them and they have a severe dislike of that having been such a private person for nigh on three years by this point. They wake up, they occasionally eat breakfast and if they’re feeling brave enough they leave the house and go for a walk, something else that’s becoming more frequent as the days, weeks, months and years roll by lazily like someone carefully turning the pages of an old photo album. They would never wish what happened to them on anyone it left them scrubbing their skin and feeling sick to their stomach but they’re off the sleeping pills at least. It took them five months to relapse into an old habit which had best been left behind and thank God it wasn’t combined with alcohol because the last time they’d mixed alcohol and self-injury it wasn’t a pretty sight to say the least.


	44. XXXXIV. The Medium

People say she can raise the dead, conjure spirits to speak with their loved ones this of course is false. She’s merely haunted by them, usually the souls of children wanting to speak to their parents once more or lovers wanting a chance to tell one another ‘I love you’. Sometimes it’s people who’ve been murdered and they’ll torment their murderer until they’re driven insane or apprehended. Some people avoid her and her business with the occult but for the most part people tend to flock to her and it’s unsettling to see them grieving and hear them pleading with her. She never asks payment or that people spread the word but it seems each month more and more people flock to her small cottage seeking answers. Some leave payment with insistence that she takes it others are merely grateful that they have some closure. She misses the way it was before the hauntings had begun but she’s more than comfortable with the help it offers others. Unfortunately it’s left her lonely and while she’d prefer that they leave her be so that she can find someone and settle down they show little to no signs of doing so and thus she’s learnt to live with the children’s laughter that sparks up about six in the evening and often continues well into the night or the sound of arguments from unseen participants or waking in the morning to find calligraphy pieces on her tiny kitchen table and her kettle whistling wildly demanding her attention. She can’t raise the dead, not in the slightest but she can at least pass on their last words to their loved ones.


	45. XXXXV. The Carpenter

They craft toys expertly, primarily from wood and steel ball bearing joints. They used to craft spinning tops but then one day the children didn’t like them so much, before that it was furniture, expertly lacquered and polished but then most of their clients moved from the town and the war hit so now they make toys to keep children entertained and distract them from the horrors being broadcast over the radio between songs and other pieces of news. Their husband went off to fight in the war and they’re glad he taught them carpentry before he left so they could carry on the business they run together. They’re always relieved when his name never comes up in the broadcasts or when the dreaded telegram never arrives after reports of bombing. They hide in the underground tunnels at night, it’s dark and cramped and the sounds of children crying echo through the tunnels and sometimes the walls shake but it’s safe down there. Admittedly their house has been destroyed so they’ve been forced to take up residence in the shop but each night they bring toys with them to the tunnels in order to try and make the children feel more at ease, their mother’s usually appreciate it and it puts a smile on their face. If they had the time and rationing wasn’t in place they’d paint the features they sometimes etch into the dolls at the request of the children but the paint is being used on planes and so they make do with what they have.


	46. XXXXVI. The Vampire

His gods are old and have had many names. Just as he’s lived many lives. His hair is bleached blond by the harsh sun, which would’ve burnt many younger than him to cinders long ago but he’s old and weary of this sun-bleached country. He grew up in England, he can’t remember where now for it has changed so much but he’s certain a road has been built through where his settlement used to stand. Nowadays no one speaks the names of his gods, one God being primarily worshipped although he too has many names and many myths. There are a few who worship his gods but human sacrifice is frowned upon and thus food is offered in its place. He vaguely recalls being a druid and seeing criminals hung in order to appease certain gods. He’d like to go home but modern technology frightens him and he never learnt to swim so he walks and walks crossing land borders illegally along with refugees fleeing civil wars and when he finally reaches the ocean on then does he pause to feed on someone who he hopes won’t be missed but deep down he knows they will be. He boards a boat, bound for Greece someone tells him, then they’ll walk or catch a bus or lorry to France, he knew it as Gaul in his first lifetime, from there he’ll sneak himself expertly into a nook and cranny no one thinks to search and he’ll return home. He’ll return to a home where trees and rolling fields have been replaced with cities and roads and the once clean air which he was sure was provided by one of his many gods is thick with chemicals and pollutants and he’ll cough his lungs up as his draws a deep breath. It’s not his home as he remembers it but it’s called for him since he left a millennia ago and so he returns.


	47. XXXXVII. The Reformer

She walks the streets of the once wealthiest district in this city, where the richest ate and danced and made merry clockwork braces and limbs strewn around the streets after the skirmish that occurred here. She walks with her head held high, knowing this city and by extension the Empire, is freed from the rule of a king who no longer cared. Of course she’d heard the rumours of a Mechanist who’d been crucial in both the build-up and the execution of this grand plan. She can’t wait to meet her having heard about the way assassins, anarchists and thieves amongst other professions passed her location around via paper strips. First and foremost though she has to clean the streets, bodies have already been removed and looters have for the most part been stopped. The aim of this reform is to instil a government who cares and will listen to its people seeing as how the Prince had no desire to remain next in line. As she walks through the streets the smell of the nearby sea floods her nose a mixture of salt water and sewage, that’s next on the list she decides: sort the sewage systems out and then finally she’s at the palace, which is surprisingly undamaged given some of the threats she’d heard and inside lie wounded from both sides, some who merely have dents in their mechanical braces where bullets have bounced off them somewhat harmlessly others bleeding from wounds sustained. Nurses flit round yelling for doctors and a young woman in oily overalls moves between those with dented braces, limbs and masks fixing them up if she can. Thus begins the reform and she is a proud woman.


	48. XXXXVIII. The Florist

They flit around the store humming a song as they gather up white camellias and pair them with red carnations and roses. The customer wanted a bouquet to show that he adored his lover and they’re more than happy to oblige. They taught themself the language of flowers a few years back, just after opening up the shop and while at first people were wary of a tattooed florist who sang and handed out flowers whenever they felt like it they soon built up a list of regular clients. There’s the older gentleman with salt and pepper hair who comes in every week asking for daffodils and each week until spring they turn him away but they’ve promised they’ll find a way to grow them throughout summer, autumn and winter. Then there’s the young couple who come in sometimes together sometimes on alternating days always asking for white camellias, forget-me-nots and red carnations (although this week the gentleman asked for red roses instead of forget-me-nots and this is what they’re currently preparing). Then there are a few customers with varying orders and they’ll never forget the day a woman asked if they sold any flowers that symbol rejection and had left with a wilted bouquet. They rue the day someone gives them a wilted bouquet of flowers although they’d have no space for them seeing as they live above the shop and all the window ledges are covered in planters full of various plants.


	49. XXXXIX. The Daydreamer

How do you tell someone that they mean the world to you without saying those words? He’s mused on this in various states be he drunk, sober or oddly tired and yet he knows not what to say. Truth be told perhaps it’s better this way that the words remain unspoken lest they be rejected in favour of being that he’s not good enough. He doesn’t see it though, he is good enough and nary a word could be said that could change his partner’s mind, they just don’t know how to voice it either. Despite the sunlight that drifts through his window making dust particles look almost magical, snow-like maybe if he were to describe them his room is cool with only his chair being warmed by the sun. He’s not good with words it takes him a while to sort through them to make them make sense but he manages it just takes time. No big deal. Designs sit scattered around his desk, some of which are drawings smudged where his hand had scraped the charcoal others are tattoo designs which he’s eager to etch permanently into his skin, one day perhaps. Still his mind wanders lazily to the question at hand and he won’t answer it for a while but he supposes that that’s okay. He doesn’t need an answer not just yet.


	50. L. The Sailor

She’s missed the way the wind whipped at her braid as they sped across the waves, carried by those who labour below deck to heave them forward toward new lands and old ports. The air smells strongly of salt and her skin is no doubt coated in a thin layer of brine but it’s to be expected in this profession. In the evenings she hauls herself up the rigging and into the crow’s nest and stares up at the darkening sky and when the stars glimmer into existence she’ll lie back and watch them for a time, sometimes a shooting star, the navigator says they’re comets but she prefers to think of them as shooting stars, goes by she’ll make a wish. Sometimes the wish is that they’ll find port soon because rations are running low other times it’s that they can spend several more weeks at sea in order to bask in the quiet. She finds that the ports are loud, grimy places where the roads are more mud than cobble and the merchants are loud and there’s never any greenery which she longs for after a long time at sea. There are always brightly clad sailors or girls who wish to show off their lifestyle their husbands can afford and she dislikes that truth be told. The dresses feel restrictive and she’s more at home in pants and a loose shirt. Besides piracy pays well and no one bats an eyelid at the fact that one of their number is a woman, she’s stumbled across plenty.


	51. LI. The Dragon Slayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry that I left this dead for over a month! I was having issues and couldn't muster up the energy to write but now I'm back! With stuff based on a conversation with my partner

Dragon slaying is hard work they muse as they ride back towards the castle. There’s less work for them these days, since dragons are getting rarer and rarer becoming more like prized gems and less and less like the common scourge they’d been a few years prior. However, that doesn’t mean they’re going to abandon their position protecting the Prince. Their armour is slightly scorched but they have scales from the dragon and gems from its underbelly that they’ll present to the Prince. They’ve heard the rumours flitting around the town that they’re trying to curry favour with the Prince because they want his kingdom but that’s folly and many know it. They’ve walked through darkness that’s consumed lesser people to slay dragons that would’ve torn the kingdom to shreds had they been allowed to spread the darkness. The Prince favours them yes, their cloak is purple to show this but they don’t want his kingdom. They want to keep it safe from those that would do it harm, a great-bow strapped across their back and the large arrows strapped securely to their horse prove that. Dragons are fickle creatures and normal arrows won’t make a dent in their scales and thus the large silver tipped arrows are the only thing that will allow them to ground them. Their armour is black from the dragon fire and when they’re in their chambers they’ll polish it back to the brassy colour it was before the fight and then they’ll wait the next fight.


	52. LII. The Prince

He’s well aware that there are some that call him a Princess because he keeps himself sequestered in a castle whenever there’s news of a dragon nearby. The truth is he’s scared to fight them lest he get burnt or injured, thus his Dragon Slayer handles it for him. Their purple cape is a gift from him that few know the true intention of and they’re strong enough to wield a great-bow that will bring them down. So he sends them out each time he hears of a dragon and then he waits for their return. He’s gifted with scales and gems each time and sometimes stories of their travels. He’s been told (by the Dragon Slayer) that his hair reminds them of the night sky, the way it’s dark blue but is starting to fade. He’s midway through listening to the nobles complain that they don’t have enough power when in walks the Dragon Slayer, armour black from fire but moving swiftly towards the throne. They kneel and through the slits of their helm he can see green eyes that glisten with untold stories and dismisses the nobles in order to hear about their journey. It’s no secret that he’s the only one who knows what they look like beneath the armour and that the nobles dislike the favour he gives to them. But it doesn’t seem to matter that much when they present him with scales and gems from the dragon before departing to clean their armour. He stares out over the town below and smiles, content that it’s safe from dragons once more.


	53. LIII. The Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I left this so long, I've been having issues for the past year along with an increased uni workload but I'm doing well now and university has pretty much finished!

She wakes at a bonfire and groans as she pulls herself into a sitting position, she lost count of how many times she’s been run through by swords and halberds or impaled by arrows that sneak through gaps in her armour. There’s a brand on her shoulder and it burns every time she wakes at a bonfire. The burnished plates of her armour scrape across one another and the sound runs through her. She checks that she has her sword and that it’s in good condition and that her shield isn’t too dented and then she leaves the bonfire and is charging at maddened hollows who only know that they have to kill her. They all revive as well when she does and she pities them for they have long since lost all traces of their humanity and she knows that one day she will too. The splashing of water fills her ears and it seeps into her boots but she doesn’t stop as she rolls past another hollow before cutting them down, she still feels guilty. She’s wandered this world for countless days and nights and has seen golems made of crystal that try to crush her, a woman who’s half spider and only wished to protect her sister, so she pledged her allegiance to a pale woman who’s surrounded by eggs and can barely move, a woman who speaks in a language she cannot understand. She kneels before her and offers up the dregs of humanity that she finds and prays that she can complete the work of the pale woman’s sister.


	54. LIV. The Hunter

He walks the streets resplendent in a navy coat embroidered with silver patterns. The moon hangs low over the city and men and women driven mad by bloodlust prowl the streets. He’s dispatched every night to run them through the heart and prevent more people from turning but those afflicted grow fangs and drink the blood of their victims until there is either none left or it splatters the floor and walls. Often, he returns to the barracks worn out and coated in blood but also plagued by images and nightmares of those he’s killed. Many were friends or other hunters with eyes that are unfocused and misty. Some days he gets to the barracks and drinks himself into oblivion so once he passes out no faces haunt him. He knows it’s futile now though, as a cold breeze courses through the cobbled streets and the clinking of windchimes follows thereafter. There are few humans left in this city and some hide by night in their houses with salt and holy water sprinkled around each entrance, others try to flee the city and they often fail, succumbing to the creatures that roam the city and join their ranks. He listens carefully as he strides through the streets, hearing the scratching and clawing of the creatures as they clamber ever closer. His swords are drawn now, made of silver, drowned in holy water and glinting in the moonlight. Anything that attacks him won’t walk away and the street will be covered in ash come the morning, when the sunlight burns the previous night’s atrocities. He’ll not know this though as he’ll be seeking solace in the bottom of the bottle and praying that the hunt will end.


	55. LV. The Fool

Inhale. Exhale. Remember to breathe. They mentally repeat that phrase for an hour, head in hands, staring at their jeans. Their chest feels tight, their binder probably isn’t helping. They feel sick, they should’ve stayed at home. But they wanted to be brave and figured that after five years they’d have dealt with it right? Turns out they hadn’t and now they need to get home before they start crying in earnest. They’re already crying though and the tears drip onto their jeans, they run their hands over the keys in their pocket and once they make it home they stumble up the stairs and crawl into their bed. Their breath comes in gasping breaths broken up by occasional sobs, they hate this. They hate that they’re so affected by what happened, even after so long. Their skin feels like it’s covered in bugs and it takes everything they have not to take a scalding shower so they feel clean and less disgusting. What did they do to deserve what happened to them? They pass out not long after getting into bed again. They wake feeling like a zombie, a warm zombie albeit it due to their thick duvet but numbed to everything and not all there yet. It’ll take them a few hours maybe days before they feel less numb and don’t want to cry because they feel like a coward. But then their partner did say that it’s okay not to be brave sometimes.


	56. LVI. The Queen of Peace

She recalls her husband, before he went mad with grief over losing his son, he’d been a kindly man who was loved by all, but then he lost his son and had sequestered himself away for six years. She gazes over the rolling field, spying the opposing army, the smoke rising from their fires and the green and white banners with a black fleur-de-lis in the centre and her chest tightens. Her husband is sat in the tent behind her, silently listening to his councillors telling him not to let his wife go to war. She’s been driven away from him though, having donned golden armour in every battle for six years and having led men and women to victory or death. She earned the moniker the Queen of Peace after countless battles, ironic really given she’s anything but. She used to be kind once, she’d wear navy dresses sometimes but also breeches and a navy doublet and her husband wouldn’t let anyone say a word against her. She clasps her banner, it’s not her husband’s anymore, it’s hers. A navy background is emblazoned with a green trident. With an incline of her head her army charges forward and so does the opposing one. They meet violently in the middle, men and women crashing against one another, the whinnying of horses and grating of steel on steel fills her ears. She’ll be fatigued, drenched in blood and coated in mud when the battles over and surrounded by dead comrades and enemies but the Queen of Peace will triumph as she always has and deserters will spread stories of a bloodthirsty queen and her relentless army.


	57. LVII. The Mountain King

Wind whips through the massive hall, hewn of stone and freezing. The Mountain King is an imposing man and few visit him. His beard has greyed now to the colour of stone and like the mountain his face is weathered but he’s still larger than any human. A child stands before him. He laughs delighted to see someone, a deep rumbling laugh that seems to shake the stone hall. The child looks up and the Mountain King realises that the child is terrified. He, himself looks old, he notes as he spies his reflection in a puddle, but then he’s as old as the mountain. The hall is silent again apart from the splashing of water into the puddle and the child is crying, asking him to allow him through his great halls because he got lost and his mother said if he got lost in the mountains to seek the Mountain King. He’s shocked for a moment, he’s believed for eons that he was merely a myth but this child’s mother seems to know otherwise. The Mountain King pulls himself from his throne then holds out a hand for the child to take. He knows the mountain like the back of his hands, he hewed many tunnels once upon a time, back when the mountain was young so that people may pass through after having found the door to his halls and asked politely. He hears the wind whistling through cracks in the various doors that conceal tunnels and it’s comforting to him, as is the occasional splash of water falling through cracks – it reminds him of a Lady in The Lake and he wonders briefly if she’s still around. When he reaches the door he’s looking for, he pushes it open gently and is blinded briefly before his eyes adjust and then he gestures for the child to head on home. Before the child does, a young girl he realises now, she plucks a flower and presents it to him and he tucks it carefully behind his ear and then she’s running back to her home. He retreats back to his hall the door slamming closed behind him and once back upon his roughly hewn throne he falls back into a slumber.


End file.
